


Spoils of War

by LordoftheNerds97



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-07 07:25:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19204660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LordoftheNerds97/pseuds/LordoftheNerds97
Summary: Mercy d'Arc was driven from her village of Cerbère early in the years of the war with Spain. Her family consisted of gypsies and nomads, a tradition that had carried for fifteen generations. With the trials of the war raging through the countryside, the village migrated to the capitol city of Paris. There she catches the eye of a mercenary and traitor. Will she be able to pull herself out of the pit she fell into or will the depths swallow her forever?





	1. Prologue

Mercy gripped the edge of the wagon gate as she stared back at the village that she had learned to call her home. Smoke billowed into the sky as the buildings were burning. The sounds of screaming sobs echoed in her ears and almost broke her heart.

Tears threatened to spill over as she helped a little girl into the back of the wagon. She had been a wanderer for nineteen years before her parents decided to settle in the village three years ago. Now it seemed that she was going back to the life that she had known for so long, going from place to place and village to village in order to find somewhere safe. Somewhere that wasn’t ravaged by raids.

Soldiers lined the village on the Spanish border, holding off the enemy troops long enough for the majority of the citizens to seek shelter or to run.

And running they were.

“Come on, love.” Mercy said, picking up the girl’s brother and setting him in the wagon with his sister. She was the eldest child in the village and was responsible for helping the younger ones.

“Mercy, come on.”

She turned her head to see her father climbing atop a horse, his hair filled with ash. She tucked her face into the crook of her elbow as she coughed, trying to clear the smoke from her lungs. “Papa, where will we go?” she asked after the fit.

He glanced back at the village before looking at her with a sigh. “To Paris. Where the other refugees are making a home. We can’t afford anything else. Anything else will get us killed.”

Mercy’s eyes swiveled back to the village one last time before she hauled herself into the wagon. The younger children huddled around her and she wrapped her arms around them, whispering words of comfort as they began the long journey to Paris.


	2. At Her Mercy

Mercy let out a huff of air, blowing a few of the black strands out of her face as she picked up the mugs from the table. The tavern was loud, the voices of hungry and lustful men raising above the flute players. She glanced back at the bar where her father was situated as he poured pint after pint of ale. Her mother poked her head around the corner from the kitchen, setting two plates on the small table. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it most certainly did not look appetizing. She walked back towards the bar, catching her father’s eye as she did.

“This isn’t exactly what I had in mind for work,” she muttered to herself as she deposited the empty mugs on the bar. Her father flashed her an apologetic look before tending to the rest of the customers. Girls dressed in sultry clothing acted as both waitresses and comfort women, something that Mercy had grown to detest. She had managed to keep herself separate from them, keeping her dress modest and leaving very much to the imagination. But sooner or later she knew those lines would be blurred, not of her own doing, but because of the people that frequented the tavern.

Paris had promised them a life of luxury. But after four years of living in the down trodden city, they hadn’t received their reward. Instead, her father managed to gamble his way into owning a tavern, her mother worked as a seamstress and sometimes a cool, and Mercy had somehow been roped into helping her father. It was work, she had to be happy about that. But the roaming eyes and wandering hands were something she loathed. And it was getting worse by the day.

As the daughter of the tavern keeper, it was forbidden to lay hands on her. But that didn’t stop several lustful gazes from wandering in her direction.

But she intended to keep herself pure for as long as she could. There would be no stooping to that level if she had anything to say about it. Though she was sympathetic to the other girls that worked in the tavern. She knew a lot of them hated themselves because of what they had to do to stay off the streets. But that didn’t mean she loathed the lifestyle any less.

“I’m sorry, love.” Terrance said, handing her another tray full of ale and wine. She gave him an easy smile and tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

“It’s alright, papa.” she replied, hoisting the tray up easily. “You need the help. You can’t keep this place running by yourself,” she said with a wink. Mercy turned and headed back into the mass of men and women, looking for the people that had demanded more drink. She moved to and fro in the small space, somehow managing to keep everyone satisfied. When she paused for a moment, she noticed a man sitting away from the crowd and hidden in shadows. Curiously, she took a pace towards him.

“Can I help you?” she asked politely, giving the man a smile. He glanced up from the papers on the table, his eyes piercing through the darkness cast by the cowl he wore. She raised an eyebrow as she took in his appearance. His features were sharp and rugged, several scars adorning the side of his face. A scruffy beard was trying to grow, and it appeared that he had no intention of taming it. He appraised her for a moment before speaking. When he did, his voice was deep and raspy, sending chills down her spine.

Whoever this man was, he was trouble.

“A goblet of wine.”

She nodded once, taking her leave quickly. There was something about that man that set her teeth on edge. And she didn’t want to be near him any more than she had too. But when she was on her way back to him, a hand shot out and wrapped around her wrist. She let out a small squeak of surprise as she was jerked backwards, the goblet crashing to the floor as she lost her balance.

“Come here, woman.” a voice said.

She turned to see who it was that had grabbed her. Scowling, she recognized the man as Beauchon, a regular at the tavern and a man frequently looking for company. “Let me go,” she hissed, trying to yank her arm out of his grasp. “I’m not interested.”

He chuckled and held onto her tighter, simply standing and wrapping an arm around her waist before nuzzling into her neck. “Let’s have some fun, you and I.”

“No!” she snapped.

“Then what am I paying you for, whore?”

She growled and turned on her heel, sending her open palm flying towards his cheek. He gawked at her after her hand connected, leaving a bright red hand print and a burning sensation on his skin. The tavern had suddenly grown ominously quiet and she could see his eyes darkening with rage.

She glared at him defiantly, daring him to try and put his hands on her again. “Touch me without permission again, and I’ll cut out your tongue and feed it to the boars.”

“You dare talk back to a man?” he hissed.

Mercy’s eyes darkened. “Yes, I dare.”

“You need to learn your place, woman.” he snarled. He took a step towards her and raised his hand but was suddenly blocked by a glinting blade. Mercy blinked in surprise as the sword crossed her line of vision, directed at Beauchon. She turned slightly to see who was wielding the weapon and was surprised to see the stranger from the corner. His back was turned to her and she was fascinated by the many intricate buckles and ornaments on his cloak. But what really interested her was the crest on his sheath. Her attention was grabbed when he spoke.

“I believe the lady told you _no_."

The quiet anger in his voice shook her to her core, sending a sensation that she couldn’t place down her spine.

“Who are you to care? Besides, she’s nothing but a prostitute selling her body to make it through the day.”

Mercy clenched her jaw to keep from saying anything, instead digging her nails into her palms and biting her tongue. She could see the stranger in front of her stiffen and she wondered what he would do.

“Do not make me tell you again. Leave now, with your body intact, or I will hold you down while she makes good on her threat.”

Beauchon’s jaw clenched as he appraised the man in front of him.

“Get out, Phillip. You’re no longer welcome here.”

He turned at the sound of a new voice, seeing Terrance approaching from the bar. He was caught off guard by the sudden blow to his cheek. He stumbled back a couple paces and looked between Mercy and Terrance; a scowl written on his face. Finally, with a huff, he stalked out of the tavern. Mercy turned to say something to the stranger that had come to her defense, but she was surprised to find him gone.

She looked around, trying to spot his dark green cloak in the throng of people, but to no avail. Everyone quietly went back to their drinks, Mercy clearing her throat and dusting off her tunic. Terrance gave her a sympathetic look.

“Are you alright, love?”

She nodded. “Yes, papa. Do you know who that man was?”

He frowned. “The one with the sword?” She nodded her affirmation. “No, I don’t. I haven’t seen him in here before.”

Mercy tucked her bottom lip between her teeth as she glanced around again, her eyes searching the room for someone she knew was long gone.

Several hours later saw her finally leaving. She had been trying to get out of the tavern since she had walked in that morning and she was glad to be gone. She never did enjoy the days she had to spend in that wretched place. But, she was thankful that it brought her family money. Sometimes it felt as if they put more into the place than they got, but it managed to keep them afloat in the city.

She hummed contentedly to herself as she walked towards the market, her purse tucked securely into the bodice of her tunic. Her boots padded along the stone walkway without a sound and her long hair was moved by the gentle breeze that flowed through the streets. The leather trousers she wore were tucked into a pair of knee height sheepskin boots and the sleeves of her shirt were pinned close to her arms. It certainly was a sight for everyone who passed her. It was common where she had grown up, seeing women in men’s clothing. Some were even tailored specifically for them.

Her people had always thought of women’s dress to be gaudy and dysfunctional, especially with the tasks they had to perform. Gypsies were often thought of as witches and unholy, but they were a simple people, really. They moved from place to place whenever they so chose while living off the land around them and the trades they could manage. But it was a spectacular sight indeed when she would wander the streets of Paris.

She had caused many a commotion before and she didn’t think it would be stopping anytime soon.

As she wandered the stalls, buying vegetables here, selling fabric there, the hair on the back of her neck began to rise. She paused in front of a grain seller, glancing around with her eyes narrowed to assess any potential threats. She didn’t see anything, but she couldn’t rid herself of the feeling that someone was watching her. Mercy quickly paid for the grain that she needed and began heading back to the refugee camp. She stuck her hand on the inside of her jacket, fingering the hilt of the knife that she always kept with her.

As she turned a corner, she caught a glimpse of a dark green cloak. She blinked a couple times, continuing to look around. But she chalked it up to her mind simply playing tricks on her, her eyes showing her what she thought she wanted to see.

But as she shook her head and began to walk, she just about slammed into something solid in front of her. She had to choke down a yelp of surprise when she realized what, or rather _who_ , it was that she had just about bowled over.

His eyes were dark as he stared down at her from the shadows of his cowl and his mouth was set in a thin line. He looked her over before pursing her lips as she placed a hand over her rapidly beating heart.

“Do you make it a practice to stalk women while they’re at the market?” she asked, the spunk of her father beginning to show.

A tiniest of smiles began to toy with the corner of his mouth. “Are you all right?”

She rolled her chocolate colored eyes. “I will be once my heart calms after that fright you gave me.”

He glanced over her shoulder and felt a growl building in the back of his throat. “You should find better work than a tavern.” he said, his eyes sliding back to hers.

Mercy gave him a small shrug. “It helps my papa. And puts a few coins in my pocket along the way.”

A puff of air found its way out of his nose, turning to fog in the cool air. “Then you best be keeping an eye on your surroundings.”

She arched an eyebrow. “What exactly does that mean, _sir_?”

Without responding, he grabbed her arm and hauled her into an alley, covering her mouth and holding her with her back to his chest. She struggled slightly before he bent down, almost pressing his lips against her ear to speak.

“Quiet. He’s following you.”

She stopped struggling at his words, but her muscles remained rigid as she watched from the shadows. She was amazed at how well his cloak concealed them both. Before long, Phillip stalked across her line of vision, and he didn’t look happy.

“Where’d the wench go?” he snarled to one of his companions.

Mercy sucked in a breath and felt the man behind her tense. She managed to glance behind her as his grip on her slackened slightly and she could see the anger in his eyes as he watched the men walk away. She glanced back to the street and felt him release her.

“Thank you,” she said softly, starting to turn. “I’m Mercy-”

She interrupted herself when she realized he was no longer there. She frowned and looked around, trying to spot him in the shadows. She hummed quietly and began to chew on her bottom lip. 

"Till next time..."


End file.
